


(Creature) Comforts

by scratchedandinked



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Early Relationship, Established Relationship, First I Love Yous too!, Jon shows everyone how long to not wear a binder, M/M, Mildly domestic mixed with trying to handle wavering humanity!, Physical and Emotional Comfort, Season 3, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Trans Writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25626043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scratchedandinked/pseuds/scratchedandinked
Summary: Jon lived alone, for all intents and purposes. But over the past couple months, a small—and growing—place had been carved out in his flat for Martin. It had been referred to as “home”, generally, whenever leaving the Institute; no single person in the pair having ownership over the quiet refuge. At that point, “home” was just anywhere Jon didn’t feel the looming threat of his own mortality and pressing danger of simply succumbing to a power he didn’t understand fully. That particularly happened to be anywhere with Martin, but that was fully beside the point.(Jon still thinks he can leave the archive and escape the possession of his new "position" at the institute. Martin continues to be around to treat him like a human being-- and remind him he is one and needs to care about himself accordingly; set beginning half s3)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 115





	(Creature) Comforts

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this began after I sat down to write after being really tired and having worn my binder for a very long time—and now we have this! Something soft and domestic, sad and aching, but hopefully still sweet. This bad boy took me where she took me-- enjoy!

Jon lived alone, for all intents and purposes. But over the past couple months, a small—and growing—place had been carved out in his flat for Martin. It had been referred to as “home”, generally, whenever leaving the Institute; no single person in the pair having ownership over the quiet refuge.

At that point, “home” was just anywhere Jon didn’t feel the looming threat of his own mortality and pressing danger of simply succumbing to a power he didn’t understand fully. That particularly _happened_ to be anywhere with Martin, but that was fully beside the point.

Okay, so Martin _kind of_ lived there. And they were _kind of_ seeing each other. But when one of them was slowly understanding he had an otherworldly sense of knowledge and conviction did it really matter what label they used?

Martin had just finished unpacking his haul after running a list of errands—grocery, pharmacy, the dry cleaners down the road—and found his (accidentally) noisy sorting hadn’t elicited any annoyed calls from down the hall to “ _please let me record in quiet, Martin_.”

That wasn’t a good sign. Normal, but not good.

“Jon?” Martin slipped out of the kitchen and down the long corridor. The end had two doors, directly next to each other and leading to the only two rooms in the house—apart from the bathroom and general main living space which included the cramped kitchen. Martin opened the door to the right—the bedroom—and found the light off. He listened briefly for any slow, sleepy breathing. Nothing. “Jon.” Martin said with more firmness, backtracking and opening the other door, to the office.

The desk was against the far wall, Jon’s back to Martin. His desk lamp was on and the curtains were shut. Jon’s pen was scribbling over the slow static of muttering he was doing over his notes. Jon hadn’t heard Martin come in, apparently, and remained hunched over the tall and cluttered desk.

“Jon, you are in the same spot I left you in.” The complaint was frequent enough there was no need for a preamble.

“W-What?” Jon was startled, turning and pushing his glasses up with an inked hand. Black fingerprints smudged the lenses. “Martin, weren’t you just leaving?”

“I _did_ leave. I left, came back, went _back_ out for the food I’d forgotten, then came back _again_ and unpacked all of it.” Martin said.

“Oh.” Jon pushed up his sleeve but wasn’t wearing a watch. His voice was low and scratched, atrophied just like the rest of him. “What time is it?”

“Nearly six.”

“You… You left at half past eleven.” Jon furrowed his brows, nearly perplexed.

“Six _in the evening_. Time hasn’t gone backwards.” Martin said, almost pitying Jon.

“Yes, Yes. I know.” Jon ran a hand through his hair, resting when it tangled with the base of his bun. He’d forgotten it was pulled back at all. “I’ll be out to help you unpack once this is done.”

“I’ve already finished.”

“Oh, I—Sorry.” With a sigh, Jon pulled his glasses off and placed them gently upside down on the side of his notebook. Jon didn’t right his posture and knew Martin could begin to see the resistance and pain on his face as he tried to flex his shoulders—

“You haven’t even stopped to change out of your binder, have you—get up.” Martin gave the directive with as much choice as he could (which was none, surprisingly).

“Martin, I’m fine.” Jon held a hand up, shaking his head quickly. “Let me just finish this.”

“It’ll be another five hours before you think you’re finished with that. The statement can wait.” Martin crossed the room and pulled on Jon’s chair slowly.

Jon wanted to argue, but also didn’t want to pick a fight. Instead he let Martin pull his chair back, creating enough distance between Jon and the desk to step in. He held his hands out for Jon, offering balance as he tried to get to his very _very_ tired feet. Jon’s legs felt like they wanted to bow under him as he stood. Everything ached, everything itched, everything felt numbly alive and electric.

In the most unceremonious and deeply embarrassing stumbling way possible, Jon managed to be led—without falling down, flat on his face—to the bathroom. Martin started the shower, feeling the water gingerly with his fingertips before adjusting the temperature. Jon stood dumbly behind him, shoulders hunched and unsure if he even wanted to move his arms up over his head to get undressed. Breathing was beginning to become more noticeable, too. Laborious and like he was under a weighted blanket.

“You going to shower in that?” Martin was teasing of course, but _god_ stranger things had been happening around them, Jon could tell he was half serious. “You need help.” Martin nodded instead. “Let me help.”

“N-No, Martin. Please. I don’t need you to--” _Undress me_. Oh, that was _not_ the thought, the feeling, the desire, the _anything_ for this moment. Jon retracted. He wasn’t uncomfortable—definitely not shy at that point, either—but he didn’t like feeling so debilitated by his work, his _job_. Whatever was happening _really_ needed to—

“At least look like you aren’t scared of me.” Martin said meekly, his hands already playing with the collar of Jon’s shirt. He laughed, but Jon knew there was a sliver of truth.

“It just… it hurts.” Jon admitted, finally beginning to tuck his elbows into the outer hem of his sweater, hoisting it up over his head.

Jon started on the bottom buttons of his shirt while Martin slowly began undoing the ones starting at his neck. Martin was particularly careful—so much in a way Jon could notice—not to touch his neck or throat. The cut had healed—presented only as a scar now—but Martin never touched the dark, almost stained skin. Part of Jon wished he would.

Jon shrugged the shirt down off his arms and onto the floor by his feet before running his hands over the tight, nylon material caging him in. It was smooth and _almost_ comforting, except for the slight reminder that Jon couldn’t feel it the way he would touching his own skin—his own chest. The sensation felt just left of center, like his nerves hadn’t been calibrated correctly. Like his skin had poor vision; just needed to slide another lens down to see it— _feel it_ —all one-to-one, directly on top of each other.

It was never a _bad_ feeling, never something repulsive or worth distancing himself from. But on days when Jon’s body _ached_ because of it, he just got very tired of the way he’d learned to live— _loved_ to live. He got tired that there was effort to simply stand and breathe and _be_ when everything _else_ wanted to try grabbing a piece of him. _This_ effort was at least to a better and greater end: _himself._

In his initial pull, the warm, worn fabric rolled in on itself in the back, trapping Jon’s shoulders and elbows in their bent position. Jon hunched forward and tried to let gravity shimmy the binder up farther. Martin didn’t wait for Jon to start squirming and quickly gave a short tug to the inconvenient fold of fabric and got Jon free. He didn’t loiter in the aid, not wanting to invade on the ritual that always ended with Jon standing in a mirror: pressing his ribcage, cracking his shoulders, wincing at the numb skin coming back to life.

Martin leaned against the counter of the sink as Jon muttered his usual _“well, alright_ _then. That’s that”_ and stepped out of his slacks. He was mindfully picking at his thumbnail as Jon stepped into the shower and closed the fogged shower door over.

The water wasn’t warm—wasn’t _just_ warm. It was nearly _scorching_ hot. And while Jon registered he really shouldn’t have been _so_ eager to engage with something that had the _potential_ to burn him, it felt _amazing_. He turned his back to the stream of water and leaned his head against the door beside him. Each bead of water hit like a dart, specific and singular. But there were _thousands_ of them, all at once but still able to be enjoyed one after the other.

After a while of simply standing, it occurred to Jon he was making noise. Or, more rather, he was groaning _obscenely_ and trying to pass it off as coherent speech. Either way, he wasn’t stopping nor embarrassed; his skin felt so stiff and his muscles had forgotten what the warmth of blood flow was like. He braced his arms against the wall and let it berate his lower back.

“You alright in there?” Martin laughed.

“I can’t tell if it feels good or if I’m just remembering what it feels like to no longer be in pain.” Jon muttered, letting his head hang. His neck cracked quickly, only in his own ears.

“Oh, Jon.”

“Oh, _fuck_.”

“You sure you’re fine? Sounds like you’re going to start speaking in tongues pretty soon.” Martin was laughing but his blurred figured moved from outside the door.

“If I do, write it down? Could be important.” Jon said with a dry laugh. Maybe another language—and a mildly dissociative episode—was exactly what they all needed.

“It’ll be the first thing I do, sure.”

The distance from the archives suddenly hung heavy; their work, their _duty_ , humming behind them.

“So, uh, how was the grocery store?” Jon asked after a quiet moment. He was facing the water, letting it pelt him in the face.

“Fine! Lot of things we needed were on sale—and some stuff we didn’t.” Martin said.

“Hm.” Jon smiled to himself. He’d never felt well enough to accompany Martin on his trips, but he imagined Martin was both an incredibly efficient shopper _and_ an impulsive wanderer, picking up little treats for either himself or the loved ones he’d encounter—or make time to encounter. Jon kept forgetting he _was_ one of them.

“Then I ran to get your medication for the week.”

“Oh, I—I’d forgotten.”

“I know.” Martin didn’t sound vengeful, but rather pleased with himself. Pleased with being able to help.

Sometimes, Martin’s kindness was just as overwhelming as the new-found doom in the rest of Jon’s life.

After Jon had nearly fallen asleep twice, shaking awake as he felt his center of gravity begin to slip forward, he turned the water off. He wrung out the ends of his hair that had gotten damp as he tried to let the water his neck. Shaking off a bit more, Jon pushed the door open slowly. He wiped his face with one hand while the other was held out to Martin, searching for his towel. Jon’s legs were bent in slightly and weak as the warmth faded, gently nudging the muscles to begin shuddering. Martin pushed Jon’s hand aside and wrapped the towel around him, tucking the edge in just under his arm.

“That wasn’t necessary.” Jon really needed to work on just saying _thank you_.

Martin directly ignored him and began wiping his shoulders with a smaller hand towel. He tisked and Jon was sure he was going to disagree about what it meant to _be someone’s friend_ or that _kindness was the most necessary un-necessity_. Instead, he just sighed and ran his fingers over the stretch of back between Jon’s shoulder blades.

“You’re getting chapped again.”

Jon groaned. “Might as well happen.” Omnipresent Eye of the world—and Jon had _sensitive_ _skin_ … God how _pathetic_ —

“Here, let me help. Sit down and I’ll put some cream on it.” _Oh. Maybe pathetic had some benefits_ …

Jon didn’t want to look surprised as Martin nudged him to hop up on the counter, angling his shoulders. “You don’t have to—I can manage.”

“If I leave it up to you, you won’t do it.” Martin opened the mirror, took a travel-size lotion out (with which Jon had never traveled farther than his own bathroom or bedroom), and put some on his hands. “You’re going to start cracking like a lizard.”

“Oh, _just_ what we need--”

“Jon,”

“--although, I think of all the ways to become less human, I think a lizard could be a hidden blessing. I mean, the summers could become a lot more tolerable—and, I mean, sleeping next to you in the winter is all I would ever really--”

“Jon!” Martin said again. He refrained from shouting, but Jon could tell he _really_ wanted to. It mustn’t be easy knowing the man you were living with—dating and sleeping with, getting to know and growing to love—was on a fast track to an unknown fate that could end with extreme deformity, even if it was just internally and performed only onto his humanity. “Please… shut up.”

“Manageable.” Jon nodded, facing straight ahead and lowering his head enough to let his neck stretch again.

“Thank you.”

The lotion was almost too thick for Jon’s liking. It always was, but he couldn’t refuse it. It was some medical grade vitamin _whatever_ that was for all of his scarring as well as continued skin irritation from the material of his binder, mixed with long sweaty summers or constant dry, manufactured heat in the winters. Usually, it wasn’t a pleasant experience, but then again, usually Jon did it himself. _Usually_ , he didn’t have Martin gently smoothing his hands and fingers over the landscape of his back.

Furthermore, and better yet, Martin didn’t pay any attention to Jon’s continued slouched posture; Jon tugging his towel up while trying to let the back fall and exposure more of his aching skin. After a few near cat-like arches away from Martin’s swift, long motions down his back, his hands returned to thumb circles on his shoulders.

“Jon,” Martin’s hands slowed, nearly stopping.

“Yes? Something wrong?”

“Your shoulders feel quite… _boney_.”

“I would hope so. There are quite a few in there.”

“No, no—they feel…” Martin let the rest of his sentence dissolve into a quiet muttering.

“Martin… are you telling me you’ve memorized how my _shoulders feel_?” Jon laughed, Martin’s hands bouncing as his shoulders did.

“I like to think it’s appropriate I know how some parts of your body feels, _yes_.”

Jon pursed his lips and nodded after a moment, allowing Martin to shed the accidental (and unnecessary) embarrassment of his remark. “Alright then, I suppose.” It was air-tight logic; Martin was always holding him in one way or another. It was slightly comforting to know if part of him ever changed—became a counterfeit— no matter how sudden, Martin could take note.

“Have you eaten yet today?” Martin asked, his hands carefully curving around Jon’s shoulders and down his arms.

“Of course, I uh—” Oh fuck, he hadn’t.

“Jon.”

“I was busy.”

“Right.” Martin said shortly. He patted Jon’s arms lightly. “Okay, I didn’t hear you clear your chest—arms up.”

“Martin, really--”

“It wasn’t a request, really. Come on. Up up up.”

Jon slowly stretched his arms up, his spine cracking at the junction of his neck and entire body wincing as he finally elongated his compressed and aching body. He held his elbows and let his wrists rest on the top of his head as he sighed. His lungs felt like they were creaking. Martin patted his back carefully—and it felt heavenly. Jon cleared his throat, coughing forcefully from deep in his chest, shaking it alive again.

“How do you feel?”

“I want to be annoyed with how smug you sound.” Jon said, peering over his shoulder at Martin. He was beaming. “But I do feel pretty good at the moment.”

“Hungry?”

“Might be.” Jon said. Martin narrowed his eyes. “That’s a _yes_.”

“I hate that _you_ get to be vague.” Martin muttered, laughing. “Wish _I_ could get a straight answer out of you for once.”

“I doubt you’d want to listen to me unfiltered.” Jon grumbled as he jumped down again. “I’d probably be _very_ irritating.” Martin lifted an eyebrow in response. “And what is _that_ supposed to mean— _don’t answer that_.” Jon said quickly, waving the Compulsion away; it slipped through in a brief moment of relief as he rolled his shoulders back.

“Hungry?” Martin asked again, laughing heartily at Jon’s own disarray.

“ _Yes_.” Jon said, nearly hissing. “I am.”

“I’ll start something while you’re getting dressed.” Martin passed Jon and quietly left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

“I would _not_ be irritating.” Jon said quietly to himself, ignoring any indication that _any_ other entity on Earth (or otherwise) could or would want to argue with him. He dried off thoroughly—almost roughly—before pulling lounge clothes out of the small dresser along the long wall of the bathroom.

It was a grab bag of clothes—no one knowing who any of them belonged to anymore. One of the shirts was Tim’s, Jon was pretty sure. He purposefully didn’t Ask how it got there; he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer, either from Martin or himself. Thankfully, he ended up grabbing a pair of his own flannel joggers and an old shirt of Martin’s. There were two holes in the collar seam, exposing the rounded protrusion of Jon’s collarbone, but also easily acting as hooks for _anyone’s_ fingers who wanted to jokingly pull him around the kitchen and into them, hands dropping the fabric to grip his back tightly. Warmly. Safely.

“Have you burned anything yet?” Jon said, walking down the hall. He knew what he asked. And knew Martin would tell.

“ _No_.” Martin called back. “I’m making you brown rice how you like it you so better watch it.”

“I should… _watch it_.” Jon said dryly. “I’d love to do a whole lot less of that, actually.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“At least I’m not irritating.”

“A walking technicality counts, right?” Martin said, shooting a look over his shoulder.

He stood at the stove comfortably. Far more comfortably than Jon ever felt at the stove, in the kitchen, in a house, really. Martin was stirring a pot, steam billowing up from the top. For how hot it was, Martin moved in a calm and organized way. He wasn’t concerned. He wasn’t worried. He was just… pleased to be doing it.

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon pushed himself up onto the far counter, crossing his ankles. “Thank you for taking care… taking care of _me_.” There was a strange instinct to say _us_ that Jon swiftly ignored.

Martin stopped suddenly, turning again. He looked at Jon with furrowed brows and drooped lips. “Of course. I’m not going to let you warp your ribs like… like…”

“Hot wax?” On the worst days, pressing on Jon’s ribs felt like pushing on the sides of a cooling candle; giving easily to the pressure but _oh_ so ready to crumble.

Martin pursed his lips. “Sure. Like hot wax.” He started stirring again. “Not going to let you go hungry either.”

There could be a debate on how— _if_ — that could even happen, but Jon wasn’t sure if even he knew where he’d stand on the two sides. Jon was sure, in a few weeks’ time, there might not be anything for Martin to do for him; all his needs would become more _creature_ than comfort.

But for now, in that suspended moment of relief, and ignorance to what pain could be loitering in their futures, it wasn’t an argument Jon cared to humor.

“Can I set the table? Do something to help?”

“Already did.” Martin said. Jon turned around and saw two place mats, sets of utensils, and mugs at the table.

“Oh.” Jon re-centered himself. “I am really off today, aren’t I?”

Martin didn’t answer and Jon made himself useful by pretending he hadn’t asked anything at all.

“If you want to get bowls, it’s almost done.” Martin lifted his hand to point at the cabinet, as if Jon hadn’t been the one to decide where the bowls were in the first place. Neither paid attention to Martin’s quick move to begin waving away the steam.

“I can manage that, yeah.”

Jon eased himself back onto the ground and walked to the hanging cabinet filled with his dishware. He tried to clatter the least amount of plates as he pulled down two semi-matching bowls. Hovering in Martin’s peripherals, Jon waited for Martin to wave him over and simply watched him cook. It occurred to Jon there really wasn’t supposed to be so much _stirring_ in steaming rice. And suddenly the kindness seemed a lot more compulsive; Martin’s own way of interfering with the daze the statements put Jon under.

“I-I have them.” Jon said quietly, sure he was breaking some much-needed concentration. “Here, Martin.”

“Oh, thanks.” It seemed like he’d already forgotten. He took them and began dividing the food between them—unevenly, of course. Martin handed the most _ridiculously_ filled bowl back to Jon. “Go sit, I’ll be right there.”

Sitting down to eat always felt like a confrontation, ever since Jon was a little boy. There was something oddly walled-in about the event. Like the meal was a trap, and now Jon was at the mercy of whoever cooked it—his grandmother, usually—to hear, as payment for the cooking, whatever it was he _needed_ to hear. It felt the same at school during lunch; sure, no one cooked for him, but by them letting him sit at their table, he had to be okay with being scolded and mocked and bullied while simply trying to eat his peanut butter sandwich.

Jon eased down into his chair with his bowl of swollen, gloppy, and bland rice—the only way he really liked to eat it when he was feeling unwell. Martin sat on the adjacent side of the table, rather than across from Jon. He placed his hand very clearly between himself and Jon, inviting but not demanding to be held.

Jon broke the accidental silence with a stern voice: “Do you _want_ me to hold your hand?”

“I would, yes.” Martin didn’t even seem bothered by the Compulsion. He would’ve said it anyway.

Jon obliged, placing his hand over Martin’s. Jon’s hands were smaller, in the most average and inconspicuous way, but Jon always marveled at how human hands could be _so_ vastly—well, he guessed it didn’t mean much if he _wasn’t_ all that human any more…

“Jon, you’ve got that look on your face.” Martin said, spoon lifted to his mouth. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Jon sighed, smiling at Martin. “Nothing, just—my back still hurts.”

“I told you not to sit around in that thing. I know I _know_ I can’t understand, but Jon you’re going to hurt yourself. You were in your binder for _ten hours_.”

“I forgot to check the time.” Jon forgot to Ask himself how long it had been—if his body was actually hurting. Didn’t seem important at the time.

“I worry, Jon. I worry.” Martin squeezed the tips of Jon’s fingers that had curved around to his palm. “Believe it or not, people can still worry about you.”

Jon’s laugh was weak, if only because of the guilt pooling at the base of his throat. “I know. It doesn’t go unnoticed. I- I appreciate your concern.” _I think… I think what I’m feeling right now is love._

Jon didn’t dare ask.

Then again, he already knew. There was a particular certainty in his uncertainty, the flutter of excitement of Martin turning his hand over under Jon’s, pressing their palms together; the knowledge that had no verbal or lingual articulation. A comfort, really. Something that once you know, it never leaves you.

“You don’t have to worry—I’ll be better about it.”

Martin chewed slowly; they both needed the silence. “Can you even promise that?” It really wasn’t up to Jon; they simply got to leave the archives for a few days and pretend.

“No.” Jon said. “But I can try. I can promise that I’ll try… as much as…” Jon swallowed. “humanly possible.”

“Please be careful.” It wasn’t shameful that neither of them knew what Martin was referring to. Not really.

There was nothing Jon could promise. He just nodded and kept eating, pushing the back of his spoon against his rice; the grains smearing against the ceramic sides of the bowl. Promises were made between two people, and inadvertently involved others—could be foiled and ruined by any outsider.

Some things though, were personalized and singular. A full statement, beginning and ending in a sentence, and unable to be altered or disputed. And Jon knew of one.

“I… I love you, Martin.”

Martin looked up from his food and _almost_ —and Jon was sure of it, _almost_ —broke his neck. “W-What?”

“Are you saying that because you didn’t hear me… or are you just being incredulous?” Jon said, trying to seem unbothered by Martin’s wavering response. “Do I need to say it _again_?”

“I’d like that, yes.” Martin said, compelled.

“I—sorry.” Jon sighed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I love you too, Jon, but,” Martin spoke softly but it was still enough to go over Jon’s voice. “I’d still like to hear it again.”

“Oh. Well, alright, uh,” Jon curled his fingers around Martin’s hand, waiting for the gentle touch to become a frantic grip one day—the two of them being pulled apart. “Martin, I love you. Very much so—it’s actually almost kind of fr—you know what? I think I’ll stop there. I love you.”

Martin’s laugh was full and heavy and giddy and _definitely_ still packed to the brim with light. There was still some in Jon’s life. Whatever was happening, whatever they were about to be up against, Jon at least had this. It wasn’t a promise. Instead, a _now_ only becoming a sweet memory held by just the two of them.

Jon hoped whatever lay ahead—whoever, included—would let him keep it, right up until the very end.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!  
> if you want to hear some more less prosed, poised, or coherent thoughts on tma-- or suggest a prompt-- my tumblr ask [@asheardontape](https://asheardontape.tumblr.com/ask) is open!  
> -m


End file.
